It isn't easy
by MathildeM
Summary: Set at the end of season 6 - Margaery escaped King's Landing after being burned and scared by the explosion. She is profondely changed and chooses a different path for herself. But the White War is coming and she finds herself riding to Winterfell where she discovers she isn't the only one that changed. disclaimer - i don't own Game of Thrones (...) -the rating may change later on
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 _I hope this finds you well, and that perhaps you'll find it in your heart to think good of me after all this years. A lot happened for the both of us, events that changed you as it changed me, we both became ghosts somehow along the way, arboring bare scars of our struggles on our souls-_

With a heavy sigh, Margaery drops the quill, splashing dots of dark ink on the letter. Gritting her teeth, she crambles the paper in her trembling fist and struggles to take a new breath.

It isn't easy. She knew it wouldn't be. Still, she wants to write it, she needs to. So long she chose not to fallow that particular path, the path where no power awaits for her at the end, the path she wasn't raised to see, to even think of. The path of fairytales and stories for stupide little girls. She wasn't stupide, even as an enfant, she was smart and watchful, and with her grandmother's guiding wisdom, she couldn't be anything else than what she became. A woman, yes, always inferior to men, always at the mercy of their strength, but a woman still. A woman with assets, with cunny mind and a name. A woman who became queen.

She maried three kings and is left with nothing. Most of all, she is tired of wanting, ploting, thinking three moves ahead, all in the name of her family. What of herself then ? For a long time she thought she, too, wanted only power, to honor her House and grow her influence in the world. She wanted it, the throne. She wanted it as much for her family than for herself. Gods, she dreamed of it. Of power. Ruling. Ruling the Seven Kingdoms all for herself and her pupet husband. And then she met her.

Margaery passes her trembling hand in her rough, dry hair, picks up her quill and starts writing again.

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A/N  
I'm back !  
I'm almost done writing this multichapter fic, so i will post it regularely.  
I intend to continue my others stories as well, i just had this pairing i needed to write about, plus i was kind of mourning Clexa in the serie The 100 i finally watched this past fall. The way Lexa dies really disgusted me for a while, i am still a little shocked even now.

Maria and Natasha will have an ending, SoiFon and Yoruichi will have a sequel.  
For now, i'm working on Margaery and Sansa.

Enjoy !


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Highgarden is their sacred place, they are so lucky to be there when less than a month ago they were barely escaping the explosion of the Sept. They made it out alive, deeply scared, but alive. Their father did not. He burned in the wildfire. If it wasn't for Loras and his burst of chevalery near the end, for Margaery's vicious grip on his arm sparking his brotherhood out of the ashes, making him le want to protect his sister, punch the sparrows to get out, they would be dead too.

Margaery remembers the smell and the ring in her ears. And the heat. So much heat. She remembers the heat most of all. Her flesh remembers very well. It doesn't let her sleep. Sometimes, she can still smell the fire eating at her body. It doesn't help that she didn't have time to heal properly, they have been on the run ever since. Cercei Lannister is a formidable oponent, the Queen Mother wouldn't have hesitate to kill her and her brother with the excuse of the chaos to cover it up. King's Landing was never a safe place to begin with, but now with the High Sparrow and his congregation dead in such a brutal blind fashion, Cercei was wild and vicious, she would have killed them on sight.

Sore, burned, in the haze of the blast, Margaery didn't have it in her to plot, to think, to prepare a counter move. She was wounded and weak, spread on the streets with only her brother as keeper, and Loras was in no shape to fight, nevermind contemplate what to do in their situation. So, Margaery, all alone, skin screaming for the flesh she lost in the fire, clothes torned and breathing sharp, did the only thing she thought in the chaos. Run to her grandmother. Olenna. Her shelter, her guide, her ferocious protector.

Chekmate.

Something snaped in her at that moment, laying on the dirty street. Her pride diseappeared. She didn't care much for the throne anymore, in fact, she didn't know why she was there, in the capital, away from her family and her land. Away from everything she cared for. Away from home. Laying on the ground, it didn't make sense. Maybe it was the shock blurring her mind, making her confused, maybe it was the fire finally consuming her pride, for she could only think of home. Home. That's where she went.

Under the desguise of her injuries, and after scarring her brother even more by burning his forehead from the shamefull trace of his farce of a trial, they managed to leave. On that time, Margaery was gratefull for Loras, for it would have been impossible for a single woman to travel by herself without trouble. They passed as a couple fleeting the war, and slowly, so very slowly, they made it to Highgarden.

Strangely enough the travel to get home is what changed Margaery the most.

/

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A/N

As you can guess by now, this story starts at the end of season 6, Margaery and Loras escaped the exlosion


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Her chesnut mare is impatient now. It must feel her own trepidation. Winterfell. She never went so far north before, never needed to. North is cold, harsh, her own clothing isn't made for it but her skin relish the snow that ease the heat she feels constantly in her flesh now. She never thought she would be here, watching the massive castle with her party waiting for her command.

She never thought Sansa would write her back. Never the less that she would get the invitation to come join her. After three tries letter burned in the hearth, the fourth had made it to Sansa with not much said in it, Margaery's diplomatie with a hint of personal longing barely there anyone would have to look for it to find it, in case her missive was intercepted on its way north. Apparently Sansa did receive the letter and found the personal aspect hidden in the words. Here, sitted on her horse, Margaery remembers the only two sentences she pured her heart into : _I remember our walks, i remember you. Do you remember me ?_

Loras is waiting next to her on his stallion, his posture one of Lord Loras Tyrell of House Highgarden. He finally came back to his title and the knight he is, but he certainly lost this haughty way of his. He's grown. Not bitter, thanksfully, but calmer. He knows to relie on his sister, and together they stand as a team.

They are here on official visit.

Joined to the somewhat personnal letter from Sansa to Margaery had came an other one, an official missive from the King in the North to the Lords of The Reach. Winter has come, as the letter from Jon Snow said in his curt efficiency, and with it is brewing war, a new one coming from the Wall. A war between the dead and the living. Of course, at first, Olenna dismissed the letter, only focused on avenging their family and the death of her son, assembling their armies to strike the Lannister bitch once and for all. Olenna does not care for the throne, she cares for her family, she intends to retaliate, to annihilate. The lion queen made herself a great enemy. Margaery shares this goal wholeheartedly, but she couldn't refuse Sansa, not after reaching out to her in the first place. She convinced her grandmother of the necessity to answer and go North. She wants to go there herself, and with Loras too, both because her brother is reluctant to leave her side since the Sept, and because the Lord and Lady of the Great House Tyrell need to see this pretended threat with their own eyes to believe it so.

Olenna dims it a waste of time but they ride fast and hard. They are fifty strong going on the North, enough of an escort, enough to bring attention too. No doubt the Queen Mother at the capital will know about their meeting. Even so, Margaery couldn't bare the thought of coming in desguise, open and vulnerable on the road. Not again, not so soon after fleeing King's Landing.

If Margaery is absolutly honest with herself, she'd admit she's here on personnal business, not on a political agenda.

With a glance to her brother to give her strength, she nudges her mount and descends the hill. Winterfell awaits.

/

It isn't easy, looking at those piercing blue eyes and the blank face they bare. The castle grates their guests with a line of three, a tall man with a scar around his eye, Jon Snow, a cripple man sitted on a chair in the yard, Bran Stark coming back from the dead, and Lady Sansa.

Margaery has an easy word and a practiced smile for them when they come down from they horses, she is so used to be Lady Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden that she doesn't realise her mistake before her florish comes crashing down in front of her audience. This is not King's Landing. Far from it. The Starks are strong and taciturn here, and the whole square meets Margaery's voice with silence. Jon Snow, apparently proclaimed King in the North, offers few awkwards words of welcome then some servants show them the way to their rooms. The arriving is quick and over within minutes, and as Margaery fallows the domestic without trying to make conversation, she observes the activity in the court yard, men tending to the castle, to the weapons, to the horses. Training. Winterfell does feel like a battle ground.

For a moment she wonders if she can even speak the language of the North, because everywhere she looks is foreign to her, from the landscape to the very stones of the stairs.

« Your chamber, Lady Tyrell »

The servant opens a door and an other one rushes inside, puts her saddle bags on the chair next to a table before turning back and leaving. An other domestic shows Loras an other door in the same corridor, and Margaery is glad for it. Her brother will be close. She is silently gratefull to Sansa, the once young girl knows too well the need to keep family at arm's reach, and she extended the courtesy of this arrangement to her guests. A nice gesture that speaks a lot for Margaery, for it seems that somewhere behind the blank face and cold eyes Lady Sansa grated them with, her friend might still live.

The Tyrell sibblings don't stop in their rooms. With one look at Loras, Margaery turns to the old woman who showed her the chamber. She is about to ask for a meeting when the domestic speaks with a low rasping tone « They are waiting for you. Please fallow me. » At this point, Margaery isn't offended by the direct formulation, she only nods her consent. The woman turns around and leads them along cold hallways, then out by an opened passageway, then in again to an other part of the castle. Margaery hasn't change from her traveling cloths, the dust of the road still on her skin, making her feel ugglier than she is, but she wills herself not to care for it. Not here, when she sees the ethiquette isn't so much about being clean than it is about being ready.

Also, she is a lot less vain than she used to be.

When they come to the large room with tables on both sides and a large one on upper ground, she understands that this is to be the major place of events, ruling and such. The three Starks and Snow are already here, sitted at the higher table, the bearded one in the middle, the younger man at his left, Lady Sansa at his right. Margaery stops three steps down in front of them, neither too far neither too close, showing respect among House of the same rank and priviledges. Her brother standing at her right, she folds her hands in front of her while he nods slightly. Her head high, she curtsies, surprising them all. She is facing a King, yet she is still a Queen herself, by title and full right. The Iron Throne is hers. She curtsies slowly and not low, she does it not as a queen to a king. She shows reverence and respect while looking into Sansa's eyes directly. She hopes her message is clear when she straightens once again.

It isn't something she planed, it isn't a manipulation of politics, but somehow, watching Sansa's unyielding face and hardening stare, Margaery realises that the Lady Stark maybe only sees her as a puppet master, using people for her own gain. She cannot fault Sansa for it, not after everything that happened in King's Landing. She'll have to earn her trust.

So she waits. She doesn't want to be the first to talk, to use her words like she did so many times in the past. She knows Loras is unconfortable and intrigued by her lack of conversation, but her brother only waits with her. She is looking into blue piercing eyes and waiting for a Stark to say his mind, inviting Sansa with her gaze and a barely turn of her lips. She doesn't smile because her smile here isn't welcomed and she honestly doesn't know when was the last time she genuinely smiled to anyone outside of her own family. She doesn't want to give the Starks a fake grin, certainely not to Sansa. She can't. And then, she can't find it in her to smile truely, because there is nothing to smile about in this situation. They are standing in the ruins of a once happy family where the ghosts are haunting the grounds and screaming for revenge.

« Lord Tyrell, Lady Margaery, i know why you are here, i know what you lived and you are safe here. »

The cripple's words barely left his mouth that a snort comes from the left, from Sansa.

« Forgive my young brother, but i can not offer you safety, no-one can truely be safe in this world as i am sure we all know by now. »

« My sister is right » Jon Snow continues when Sansa doesn't seem enclined to go on. Margaery stays quiet. « What we can offer you is a hot meal and a room, and the protection of what is left of the North. We are growing strong again. »

« What i meant to say, brother, sister, is that no harm will come from us. We all have our tragedies to bear, me as any of you. I have seen what they lived and i can assure you » the young Stark stares hard at the Tyrell guests « No harm will come to you, Margaery, or you, Loras, from the Starks in this room. Our intentions are pure, we invited you here for a reason. »

Bran Stark's words meet silence while Margaery muses their meaning. There is something different, deep and wise about this young man, as if he is looking at them and truely seeing them. There is no condescension in his tone, he states facts like he would read a book. Like he is watching into their souls. They cannot hide from his eyes.

« Three-eye-raven » The words are whispers on her lips she didn't mean to say. They heard it in the quiet of the place.

« I am. Now. »

« Legends speak of you. Old legends... »

« They are all true. You know that i see. You know that i see you. »

« Sister ? »

« Loras » Margaery adresses her brother without averting her eyes from the table, from Bran Stark. « Do you remember the tales our nursemaid used to tell us about ? She was from the North. »

« She was ? Ulkia ? »

She doesn't say more, now is not the time. Loras seems to understand as well and doesn't ask any more.

« You see me. » The Stark cripple nods slowly in answer, eyes piercing her own. « Ulkia said the Three-eye-raven travels in the thread of time and sees anyone's past, present and futurs. Do you know what i did the night King Joffrey died and i was finaly alone in my chambers, away from preying eyes and ears ? »

She hears the intake of breath on her left, but never breaks eye contact with Bran Stark. For a moment he looks at her, then his eyes become white and Margaery _feels_ him looking searching her soul. Loras gasps audibly and almost reaches out to her but a single finger lifted stops him and she lets the young man read her. No-one but herself knows what she did that night.

A few heartbeats later, the young Stark comes back from his travel and gives her a small grin. « You smiled. You looked out your window into the sea and you smiled at the waves that carried your friend Sansa out of the capital. You were happy, not angry for missing out on the throne and becoming queen, not even relieved at being free of Joffrey Baratheon. On that instant, alone in the darkness of your room, you dared to smile and murmur my sister's name softly to the wind to cary her home. In your heart, you knew she used the chaos to escape. You said 'Go home, Sansa', one hand pressed on your chest and the other one helping you stand with the balcony's rail. You stayed there, in the silence of your room, then you closed the window and went to bed, both happy and worried for Sansa, but also achingly sad to lose her. » He pauses a moment, weighting his next words with the care of the wise looking at her soul. « I believe it was the first time you really were lost » The way he looks at her, she knows he knows what was in her heart then. For the first time when Sansa was truly gone, she realised the depth of her attachement to her. When it was too late. « But you didn't let it stand. When morning came you had an other plan. »

Their eyes stay connected a little longer in the silence of the cold room. Margaery doesn't say anything to confirm his vision and he doesn't say anymore about what came next, they both know he sees and knows the truth. He will not say what he read into her heart, and knows what lays asleep that she never dared to awaken, not in the vicious capital and not even here now. She chooses to ignore that part of the memory. This was just a test, after all, not a moment meant for nostalgia and unecessary what ifs.

« It is true then. The legends are no more, they are reality. » She finaly speaks in the room. The Three-eye-raven doesn't respond, there is no need to, he is the living proof of it. « Did you see those you call the Night Walkers, beyond the Wall ? »

« I did, Lady Tyrell. » Jon Snow answers from his sit. « I fought at the Battle of Harhome. I saw the dead coming for us all. They are marching to the Wall, and soon they will pass through. »

Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Night's Watch looks at the Tyrell with eyes speaking of horrors and death.

« They are weakening the Wall's magic as we speak. Soon they will breach it and the dead will bring an end to the living in the Seven Kingdoms. » Bran Stark finishes with the voice of the seer he is. The Three-eye-raven, reader of the past, can he see the futur as well ? Are they doomed to this fate ?

« Lord Tyrell and i came here on behalf of our House to gauge the veracity of your letter. Our grandmother Olenna Tyrell thought your message was none-sense but i urged her to wait until my brother Loras and i could see with our own eyes the threat you wrote us about. I can not come back to my House without absolute certainty of the dead walking among us. We will have to see. They will believe us only then. »

« You can not be serious, Margaery ! Do you seriously believe this ? » Apparently Loras's will to let her lead this meeting is forgotten. Her brother isn't fallowing Margaery's reasoning, but his late thinking isn't new to her and doesn't surprise her. However now isn't the time to dispute and delay any longer. If the threat is real, and she is very enclin to think so, time is running out. She didn't survived King's Landing's multiple plots, three mariages, the cells of the High Sparrow and Cercei's wildfire to died now.

She turns to face Loras fully, breaking eye contact from the Stark family for the first time since coming here. She wants to keep talking with her hosts, to find her place with them, to warm herself into their coldness. There is something about this House, this family, that makes her want to be a part of it, for them to share they words and dreams with her. It is with effort that she turns to her brother, the southern knight of Highgarden, so much different from the northeners. The contrast is unsettling.

« Brother, you agreed to come here for this very reason. » Seeing the doubt in his eyes, she understands why. To him like to Olenna, those stories are just that, stories. He came north with her only to stay at her side. He always lets her lead and rule, he trusts her judgment. That is why they are here instead of leading the charge south, but he is not convinced. « If you don't believe Bran Stark for his words, ask him a question about your past only you know the answer about. Do it now or trust me when i say he is what he says he is, and if he is then other legends might as well be true. » She sees Loras hesitates, his scared face contracts with a frown he can't really form anymore. His lips pinch and he stares at her, reading her. They have been best friends since birth, he knows to read her, her false masks and her real identity behind it. It takes a moment for him to finaly nods to her, slowly, his eyes saying that once again he trusts her judgement and he will stand by her side. She answers him with a little smile that diseappears as she turns to the King in the North.

« When can we go ? »


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Through a meal shared at the table and a long conversation about what happened in King's Landing with the rise of the Faith, the explosion of the Sept and everything in between, Margaery admits she doesn't want to be queen anymore. Not when the Targaryen rightfull heir arrives with a large army and three dragons at her back. She only wants to exterminate the Lannisters. They all can agree on that part.

They all take their leave to go rest. They are to depart at first light. Margaery's bath was quick and warm in front of the fire in her room. No luxury, not in here. This odd way of life feels wild and rough, so unlike her own life in Highgarden that she should be revulsed by its almost abrasive quality. But she isn't. Looking out into the dark night, seeing the thickness of snow on the windowsill, earing the wind bounsing against the hard stones of the chimney, this place gives her better understanding of its habitants. Of Sansa. She remembers the young girl, barely a woman then, so long ago, walking the capital with such naivety and kindness, oblivious of the nest of liars, betrayers, thiefs and murdurers all walking around her wearing parfum and pretty nice clothing. She was so clueless of it all. She didn't belong in King's Landing, she was nothing like anyone Margaery had ever met, and she had wondered how this young Lady Sansa came to be, to even exist. For a first daughter, a second borned to a Noble House, to be this candid had been baffling. Now, meeting the North and Winterfell for the first time, Margaery begins to understand the gap between them. Their worlds are so different. Seeing the reality of their life here, it is a miracle Sansa Stark managed to survive so many years in the capital. No wonder she looked so dull and sick under the South's sun and bright colors. She belonged to the wild white cold of the North.

Margaery is muzing her new sight of the Stark girl that once could have been her friend and sister when a soft nock comes at the door. She looks at the only candle still lighted on the table between the bed and the door in the small room. She has been standing there for half a candle mark, in her nightgown, traveling boots, coat and furs borrowed from the bed. Her body feels heavy, both from the harsh pace traveling north and from the cold of her room. She realises that she is tired, her body sudenly hurts from standing so long. She needs to lie down, soon.

« Come in » She says loud enough to be heard from her post. When the door opens it takes an effort to torn her eyes from the frost eating at the glass of the window. Even with the massive shutters drawn, the cold passes through. She is so hypnotised by the shapes drawing patterns on the glass that she realises a little late that the door has closed behind her visitor some time ago but no sound were made since. The silence is all there is in this castle it seems. Those of the ghosts ruling the stones. This House is in mourning, at last. After years of war and battles, fighting for survival, they didn't have time to cry, to grieve. To say good by and fair well. Maybe now they can start healing. Maybe not yet.

There are steps behind her and the sound of fabric.

« I brought you a winter cloak and some other clothing that will suit you better in the cold »

For a moment Margaery closes her eyes and smiles. This voice, after so long, it is like velvet on her once smooth skin. A voice of the past she can hear if she searches enough, under the sharp edge of Sansa's tone there is the softness hidden, not quite squashed, just dorment. Waiting to be safe enough to dare exist again.

« Thank you » Margaery whispers lowly in the room, compelled since coming here to speak more simply, to make every word count and mean something. It seems to be the North's way.

« You didn't speak much at diner earlier »

She is staying. Margaery sighs slowly and finaly moves, walking to her bed. She needs to sit.

« There was nothing to say. »

« Nothing to say... »

She can hears the anger threatening to rise. There can be no misunderstanding, not after all the waste they already lived. Not now. Sitted on the side of the large bed, Margaery bends, elbows on her knees she brushes her face with her hands. A far cry from the posture of a lady. The hotness of her scars appreciat the cold of her hands.

« I didn't mean... » She sighs, looking at the ground. « There was nothing to say at that table, with everyone on it. Your brothers asked questions, both Loras and i answered truthfully about everything. We told you all of what happened in King's Landing that we know of, that i know of. I even told you about the Targaryen queen sailing to Westeros to take back her throne. » She stretches her tired muscles and finaly lifts her head to find her visitor's blue eyes. « I was an open book about all the politics and wars, economic and military facts and decisions made, more than my brother would be confortable with. I gave the information i have about Westeros, nobility and leadership, Sansa. At that table, it was all i could say, but none of it was what i personaly came here to say to _you._ At that table it was House Tyrell making contact and possible alliance with House Stark of Winterfell, not Margaery visiting her long past friend Sansa. For Margaery, on that table, there was nothing to say. »

She grunts and wills her bones to support her once more. She stands up.

« Now that we are alone and that you are looking at me, i have something to say. » She takes a step toward her host. Sansa Stark is standing in her regal dark blue dress, red hair braided on her back over a thin coat brodden with wolves's figures facing each other, one on each side of the cloth. She stands tall, ungloved hands clapsed at her front, white skin, red lips, iced eyes staring at her. She bares the same face that she presented since they set foot in this place. A blank face. But her eyes, most of all, her eyes are almost cold, yet a flame of her young self still burns underneath, waiting to be called free.

Sansa is standing here, after all. She could have stayed in her room, sending a servant to bring the cloth. She could have not come, yet she is here.

« We were friends, once. » Margaery can't help the sadness that cracks her voice. She swallows and shifts her weight on her feet. « In all the months we spend together there, i never could speak a word without being overheard, you know that. You were a young girl, frightened, and rightfully so. I was older than you and raised in Highgarden, i knew the game of court better. I tried to help you the best i could, i hope you know that. » For a moment, she looks down at the stoned floor. She feels emotional, exposed, and a large part of her wants to retreat behind her masks, but she doesn't let herself. She swallows in the silence where Sansa Stark doesn't move and doesn't respond, and meet her unyielding gaze once again. « For all the lies and betrayals there was in this place, Sansa, i did my best to be true to you. You were all alone and i wanted to be with you, to be your friend, to help you, to guide you, for you to learn... but i couldn't. »

She sighs and steps forwards. They are three stances appart. Sansa still doesn't move, only stares. Margaery takes the silence as a probing for her to say more. She is too far gone to stop now.

« I couldn't guide you for two main reasons. » She smiles gently at the memory and the Sansa she knew then. « Even with your guards always trailing you i could have find ways to train you, to teach you the court and all the schemes that lay within. I could have teach you to better lie, to better watch, to understand the politics at play, the benefits of smiling to better hurt your opponent, to think like your enemy and plan every move, to make alliance, to discern those who will turn on you at first opportunity. I could have teach you all of this while pretending to be chatting about flowers along our walks. I was good at it. I was born for it. » Her grin is a grimace of refrained self-loathing. So much has changed since that time. « But your innocence puzzled me and amazed me all the same. You were kind, truely, really kind. It was this kindness most of all that made any guidance i could have tried unadequate for you. You weren't ready to see the world ugly and i didn't want to be the one staining you. » She closes her eyes and whispers to herself. « I was so glad you escaped this place, Sansa. »

Margaery shakes her head and looks to the side, to the frost on the window. « Now we are here »

For a moment, there is silence and the sounds of the crackling wood in the fire. The glow of the candle gives the room a quiet atmosphere. Sometimes the wind screams and the flames dance in the hearth.

« What of the second one ? »

The quiet question is a murmure that rouses Margaery from her contemplation. She comes to face her visitor once more, tilts her head to the side. « The second ? »

There is a flicker of amusement in the blue eyes looking at her. She sees it an instant before it vanishes under the cold.

« The second reason why you couldn't teach me. » Sansa's voice is void now, uninterested. Yet she is asking.

« Well... » Margaery lets her eyes travel to the table. The candle enlightens Sansa from behind, giving the Stark woman a halo in the dark room. Her gaze finds the stone wall beyond her host's shoulder. « I had my own battles to fight »

She remembers all too well how deep she had to go to associate herself to the mad, sadistic boy king, Joffrey Baratheon, how far she went to make him see her as an equal, a partner. She remembers asking one of her ladies-in-waiting to share her bed some nights when she couldn't bare what she'd have to become to keep Joffrey intrigued by her charmes. She wanted the company of a young giggling girl, to be around a genuine girly laugh and easy banter to remember who she really was. To remember to retrieve the mask she was forced to bear in his presence, more and more.

« You were the only reason i thought about staying. » Margaery shudders out of her memory. Her eyes find Sansa's. The blue eyes are almost soft now, understanding where Margaery's mind have just been seconds ago. Sansa knows she is interrupting her dark memories. The moment Margaery looks at her and exit her souvenir, the some of the coldness comes back in the Stark's gaze. Some, but not all. The gentle young Sansa remains pointing her head underneath.

« When the time came for me to run, to flee the city, i looked at you for a moment. With Joffrey dying on the ground, you were surrounded by Lannisters and i was afraid for you. You were my friend. My only friend. Even when we didn't spend much time together after i was married to Tyrion, even when i understood you mostly wanted to marry me to your House not because of friendship but to secure the North for yourself, i still hoped your interest was genuine, that some part of you cared for me. That you were my friend. »

Sansa's voice is sharp. She doesn't stutters, doesn't hesitate, doesn't look away. She is strong now, too much strong maybe. She seems on the verge of the wrong kind of strenght, the fierceness ready to become rigid and cold. The flame of passion is almost out.

« When i was sailing with Lord Baelish who pretended to be my friend, i started to trust him. An other mistake. I made plenty of those over the years, until i finaly learned my lesson. _I_ am the only one i can trust, that is the lesson i learned. The rest, i cannot trust fully, never. »

« I... » Margaery drops her shoulders and trails back to the bed. She slumps herself on the heavy blankets and furs. « I am sorry you learned it, at the end » She swallows. « I am sorry for what caused you to learn that harsh lesson. »

She had heard, of course, of Lady Sansa's marriage with the Bolton's bastard. She managed to glimps pieces of information about this family, only learning of the horrors this house was capable of on a daily basis. She wept for the trials her young friend was to face. In her mind, the day Sansa Stark left King's Landing, she knew the woman was as good as dead. There were no Stark no return to, no protection to seek, no rock to hide under in safety. Her heart could pretend Sansa was going home, but her mind knew there was no home left for her to find. As the months and years passed, she only waited for the news of Sansa's death to come. Once or twice the Small Council told of her death, but then she appeared again, somewhere else. Each time, instead of feeling joy and relieved to hear such good news, Margaery feared for her friend, feared for the next torment she'll have to face, alone.

It is no surprise to see her still standing, alone in the dark room, hardened by the years and the survival.

« I will not ask for your trust, Sansa » she murmurs in the silence between them. She shifts on the furs and lies down on them, her head on the pillow looking at the celling she can barely see without light. « Only peace, long, last peace can bring trust back into this land. Maybe. » She laughs at her own words then, bitter. « Maybe real trust will be for our children, one day. » She corrects herself. Can a broken heart ever beat as strongly as before ? There is no looking back. At least, she musses, she herself still fully trusts Olenna. She cannot say the same for Loras, her dear brother however. She remembers his weakness at the Sept, how he renounced his lordship and his name, joining the madness of the Faith. Denying his family. Denying her. The sting of betrayal is still there, among the burned scars. She doesn't forget.

She heard the unsaid words earlier. Sansa doesn't trust anyone but herself. She doesn't even trust her own family. Still, she is at Winterfell for now. Even without trust the Stark remainings of sibblings is be better than nothing to assist a woman in this world.

They stay quiet a long time, Margaery lying on the bed, Sansa subtly supporting herself against the chair at the table. She tries to hide her weak body, but Margaery's watchful eye is used to the court, looking for small gestures of plots, infidelity and treachery. Maybe the Lady of the castle has been hurt while taking back her home ? The battle was only weeks ago, after all, almost at the same time the Sept exploded in the capital. Maybe there is more to it. She sees the way Sansa lines with the casual habit of old badly healed injuries. She saw knights and old lords at tournaments in King's Landing showing the same gait.

She is confortable, in the silence, with only wind and fire chanting into the night. It slowly lulls her aching body to sleep. She vaguely hears steps and the handle of the door. She realises her eyes are closed and she tries to blink and turns to her side toward the entrance. She looks into the dark and faintly smell the candle have been blown out. A glowing torch shines far in the corridor, just enough light to see the silhouette of her old friend when the door closes shut, leaving her in the dark.


End file.
